Morsmordre
by geekischic
Summary: Draco Malfoy receives his Dark Mark and becomes a Death Eater. WARNING: dark!fic, rated M for a reason!


**A/N: This was written for an exchange over on Livejournal. I'm a little nervous to post this one here though. It's a lot darker than the things I normally write, plus my very first Harry Potter story! It's rated M for mature themes, including branding and self injury. If that kind of stuff tends to make you squirm, I suggest you head on out of here. But, if you're brave, continue and leave me a review to let me know what you thought (pretty please?) :)**

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Draco Malfoy took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. His white blonde hair was slicked back against his skull, gleaming even in the dim light that filled his room. He adjusted the lapels of his cloak so they laid flat against his collarbone, giving him a much more adult and presentable aura. He tucked his wand neatly into the deep pocket of his cloak before he met his own gaze in the mirror, noting how dark and haunting and empty his eyes looked before chasing away the ridiculous thought with a shake of his head. He knew that his gaze wouldn't be empty for much longer. Soon, very soon, it would be filled with the drive, loyalty, and pride that accompanied the Malfoy name. He wouldn't allow anything otherwise. He wouldn't let his family, his _father,_ down.

"Draco," his father's deep voice greets his ears, as stern and cold as it always is, "It's time."

"Yes Father," the boy replies, tearing his gaze from the mirror as he turned to face his father. Lucius Malfoy stood a few inches taller than his son, allowing him to look down at the boy with the calculating look that greeted Draco whenever he conversed with his father.

Lucius turns and leaves the room before Draco can say another word, leading his son down the flight of stairs of the house and to the front door. "Remember everything we've taught you," he reminds the boy as they pull on their travelling cloaks, "Never make eye contact. Bow before him. Only speak when spoken to. And always, _always, _refer to him as 'My Lord' or 'Master.'"

"I understand," Draco replies as his father opens the heavy wooden door, and a harsh winter draft brushed against his skin as it entered the house. Lucius pulls his wand from his cloak as Draco shuts the door behind them, muttering _Lumos_ to shed some light on the dark path before them as they make their way to their Master's dwelling. The wind whips Draco's cloak around his legs as he walks beside his father, listening to his last minute orders as he hurries to communicate them before they arrive.

"Let me make this perfectly clear for you. You will represent our family tonight. If anything goes wrong, you will no longer carry the Malfoy name." Lucius's voice is cold and stern as they approach a small house, almost hidden in the inky blackness of the night. Overgrown trees and bushes surround the front yard and spill over the fence, making the house almost invisible to those who didn't know of its existence.

Lucius's hand hesitates on the handle before he opens the door, turning to his son for the last time. "And one final thing, Draco. The less you scream, the stronger you appear."

Draco gives his father a confused and questioning look as they enter the house together, wondering what on Earth he could possibly mean. The lighting inside the house isn't much better than the night outside, and Draco can hear every creak and whistle as the wind howls against the outside of the house. Lucius leads his son down the long, dark hallway, ignoring the numerous doors that line it until they reach the final one. Soft, dim light rolls out from the crack between the door and the floor, and Draco finds himself wondering what awaited him on the other side.

Lucius softly taps the wood of the door with his knuckles, squarely eyeing the man who slides out the peephole at the top of the frame to see who was knocking. The door opens slowly before them, greeting Draco with a dimly lit room on the other side. A single chair sits in the center of the room with its back facing the door, seated in front of a large fireplace. The fire looked to have died down quite a while ago, casting a faint, flickering light across the room from the glowing orange coals.

"Draco Malfoy," the words are a hiss in the air as they greet Draco's ear, sending a strange chill down his spine at their intensity. Lucius gives his son a push forward and Draco trudges into the room, giving his father one last look back before walking toward the man sitting in the room's sole chair. He feels his heart beating fast, too fast, in his chest as he notes a large snake curled around the legs of the chair, its head resting at the feet of the man who occupied it.

Draco kneels before the man without glancing at his face, his head bowed to the ground as he drops to his knees. He finds himself hoping that his nervousness and fear aren't obvious, though somehow he knows that the hope is futile. Lord Voldemort was too skilled at reading those who approached him.

"Have you come to serve me, young Malfoy?" the Lord's words are slow and calculated as he gauges the boy's reaction to them, plainly seeing the fear he's tried to hide.

"Yes," the blonde replies, though his voice is much shakier than he would have liked.

"You wish to be my servant, and place my needs before even your own life?"

Draco swallows at the cold hiss of a voice that seemed to wrap its way down his spine, chilling him to the bone with its raspy chill. The words were dangerously hypnotic as they reached his ears, sending an unshakable sense of fear through him.

"Yes," he whispers, knowing that he's had no other choice his entire life.

"Good," Lord Voldemort draws out the word until it tapers off into a light hiss, causing the snake as his feet to raise its head in curiosity. The Dark Lord's pale white hand comes to rest atop the snake's head, petting it like a dog to calm it down from its interest. And though Draco never raises his gaze, he can feel the man's eyes fixed upon him the entire time, seeing straight through him as he observes the boy at his feet.

"Rise, young Malfoy." Draco follows the order while still averting his gaze, holding his breath in anticipation as he awaits what the Dark Lord has planned for him.

"You will find a poker lying in the fireplace. Remove it," The order comes in the form of that snakelike hiss, and Draco quickly turns around in obedience as he regards the fireplace. A metal fire poker lays in the bed of glowing orange coals, its wooden handle resting on the ground outside the fireplace as if enticing someone to come pick it up. Draco slowly removes it from the bed of coals, holding back a gasp as he glances at the white hot end of the poker. The metal is twisted into the shape of a skull, with a snake protruding from it like a tongue. It's a symbol that Draco has seen many times.

Burned into his father's arm.

Realization hits him like a bullet as he understands what Lord Voldemort is about to ask him to do.

"Those who serve me must be willing to suffer on my behalf," Voldemort's voice is slow and menacing as it begins his speech, "and they must be willing to mark themselves as my servants, for they belong to me. It's time for you to receive this mark, young Malfoy."

Draco can hear the smile in the Dark Lord's voice as sweat builds on his brow and slicks his palms. Panic begins to set in as his grip on the fire poker slackens slightly, and his gaze begins to dart around the room as he looks for some way out of this. "Father," his voice begs for Lucius's help, but the elder Malfoy merely narrows his eyes and raises his chin at his son. The blonde begins to shake as he realizes there is no escape, and it's then that Lord Voldemort's voice once again fills the room.

"Roll up your sleeve."

Shaking with panic and fear, Draco does as he's told, though his hands tremble so badly from terror that it takes him a few tries to roll up the left sleeve of his cloak. His gaze darts from the smooth, pale white skin of his arm to the smoking orange glint of the fire poker, absolutely dreading what the Dark Lord is about to make him do.

"Mark yourself."

Draco's eyes clamp shut as the fire poker moves closer to his skin, seemingly of its own accord. He feels a dull heat as it presses to his skin, but soon it escalates into a fiery pain that wrenches a piercing scream from his lips. The sound echoes so loudly around the empty room that he can't even hear his own heartbeat. His skin bubbles and blisters beneath the fiery heat of the brand, forever etching the symbol of the Dark Lord into his forearm. His scream continues to echo around the room as he smells burnt flesh on the metal and quickly wrenches the branding iron from his arm, tossing it to the side of the room as he cradles his left arm in his right. Tears blur the edges of his vision as the pain shoots through his arm and down his back, blinding him with such intensity that he begged to pass out just to escape the unbearable pain. Somehow, he manages to quiet his tortured scream into a muffled groan behind closed, trembling lips as he collapses to the ground in front of Lord Voldemort, who has watched the entire exchange without expressing a single emotion.

"My Lord," Draco manages to gasp out, begging for relief from the searing pain that burns throughout his body. Tears well in his eyes as his body tries to fight the pain, but it's no use. The flaming pain of his stinging skin is too much for him to handle.

"Give me your arm," the Dark Lord replies, and a sense of gratitude floods Draco as he offers his wounded arm to the man. Lord Voldemort lifts his wand from his side and touches it to the boy's brand, causing yet another agonizing scream to leave the boy's lips as the tip of the wand brushes against his seared flesh. "_Morsmordre,_" the spell is uttered in yet another hiss from the Dark Lord, and Draco watches as an inky black green smoke trails from the tip of the wand and falls across the brand. A strangled sound leaves his lips, as he hasn't another scream to contribute as the excruciating pain once again sears through his body. The smoke lies across the outlines of the brand, blackening the edges of the skull and snake as they delineate the unmistakable picture of the Dark Mark against Draco's skin.

The Dark Lord releases Draco's arm as he collapses to the ground, unable to move from the pain that fills his body. "Lucius," it only takes one word for the elder Malfoy to stride across the room, lifting his son from the ground as Lord Voldemort wished. "I expect both of you here in the morning. We haven't the luxury of wasting time."

"Yes, my Lord," Lucius replies as he and his son leave the room, Draco only semi conscious as he continues to cradle his branded arm. Its then, in those few moments as he and his father leave the house, that he feels he's truly made his father proud, for he's followed in his father's footsteps.

He had become a servant of the Dark Lord.

**-End **-


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